


Gems in her collection

by verywhale



Category: Darkest Dungeon (Video Game)
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Aphrodisiacs, Biting, Body Hair, Body Worship, Chastity Device, Choking, Clothed Sex, Cuddling & Snuggling, Cunnilingus, Drunk Sex, F/F, Face-Sitting, Genital Piercing, Height Differences, Masturbation, Nipple Piercings, One Shot Collection, One-Sided Attraction, Oral Fixation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, Scent Kink, Sex Toys, Sex for Favors, Sexual Inexperience, Smoking, Spanking, Teasing, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-02
Updated: 2020-05-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:06:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22976617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verywhale/pseuds/verywhale
Summary: Audrey always finds something to love and cherish about her fellow ladies.[Characters are tagged in the order of appearance; additional tags are sadly placed a bit on random. There's a lot of them since every oneshot focuses on different things, usually 2-3 tags can be applied to each.]
Relationships: Grave Robber (Darkest Dungeon)/Other(s)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 26





	1. Amani, the Emerald

Audrey always finds herself pause in one place, her mouth ajar when she watches Amani dispatch the monstrosities with her honed grace. There’s barely an ounce of such grace one could find in folks even with both limbs intact; Amani continues her dance in the salted damp depths, or dessicated hopeless woods, or any other hell on earth all and the same. Her spear must be nothing more than a ribbon of silk, given the poise and precision she ordains it with. Peeking sunlight shines on her sable skin; eyes might be but another weapon of hers, piercing her prey to its end as she impales and intoxicates it. With all these heavy ornamentals tingling on her body, with a shield strapped to her stump and the weight of the spear, Amani seems to be light like a feather, but fierce like a wave; sliding and leaping and rising only to plunge with a beauty so destructive. Destructive for their vile foes, hopelessly scattering as she descends and brings their death; and for Audrey’s already impossibly high standards for form and dexterity.

Every so often Audrey still finds herself gasping and clapping when another fishman or a husk shatters to pieces from Amani’s balletic assaults. Some thick-skulled twits like Sarmenti or Dismas would often snort and giggle, ensured that Audrey’s farce is too apparent, but she tells them to keep their pathetic doubts to themselves. Or sometimes, she doesn’t bother to pay her mind to them, as it’s already encaptured.

Amani doesn’t say how she’s learned such grace; just as she never replies about the origins of these mysterious venoms she unleashes almost out of thin air. Still with a frown above her veil, she’s laconic but always full or her worth; always keeps her chin high and her posture unfaltering. During the respite, she polishes her scales shining white in the flames, and chants perfectly measured lullabies which bring dreams the most soothing even amidst the harshest raid. All horrors invading her sleep have been slain long ago; Audrey takes her own glory at aiming her knife right into the eye of that two-headed behemoth. There are barely any hairs on her vigorous body. Removing them must be another force of habit along with veiling her guise, or bandaging her stump. When one comes nigh enough, they can see that the cloth on her face is thin like a spiderweb. No one, however, is allowed to get to her closer than the length of the spear, unless they wish to have a tip of that spear stick out of their backs. Audrey always slips past it, of course.

Amani warrants her that closeness on _her own_ volition—something she cherishes more than a sip of fresh water. To the matter of fact, she has too much pride to admit that she herself has approached Audrey, regardless of rumors she has heard on her arrival. She’s asked about the songs they have reserved for weddings and mournings; about the dishes one can afford based on the success of the quest; about the meanings they give to directions of wind and formations of stars. Some sounds unique to her new language still come as a struggle. And Audrey enthusiatically shares her tongue with her, always has Amani’s pupils stretch in excitement as she teaches her a new pattern. Delicate, never too pushy; she slides across Amani’s lips opening wide on their own, breathes her energy in, savours Amani’s cleanness. Audrey could’ve sworn she doesn’t break any sweat during the battle. Yet there are always little pearls spawning on her strong dark thighs, spread in nearly perfect split in front of Audrey’s swift tongue and ghostly lips.

There’s a lot Amani can admire about Audrey as well. What has taken her years of torture, hungry stares stinging worse than snakebites and lashes, Audrey has seemed just to pick up along with the rags and that hat cloaking gloom and regrets in her eyes. Ragged and stained, patched from things that once have been lying in mud, Audrey still carries the finesse of her noble days. Battlefield becomes a ballroom; her unkempt hair sways and lays with every swing of her pick or a throw of a knife, doesn’t cause any troubles while fighting. Her collection of daggers seems to be limitless, as so does her nimble spirit which flows over her while she dances around. Unlike Amani, she barely has any muscle to speak of; she’s dainty and scrawny and her bones shine under her translucent cold skin. Amani herself is often among those worried souls gasping and clutching at their hearts when a blade or a bolt runs next to Audrey. But she also cannot help but gaze at Audrey’s quiet steps in the shadows, followed by a flash in melee and her bubbly laughs at the sight of blood spraying from the breathless body of her foe.

They would hide behind the curtains in their barracks, Amani’s spear blocking the door in front of any clueless wanderer. She would sway her silky slate hair, a gift Audrey hates to be constantly hidden under her sturdy helmet. She would let Audrey run her gaunt slick hands over her sinew, over her firm torso, perfect tough curves of her arms. She would lie diagonally over Amani, slither her lips across the side of her hip; while Amani tickles her skinny backside. She wouldn’t remove the paints off her face, so Amani’s body is glazed with red streaks and patches. Her bedlah and footwraps and pieces of armor are tossed aside, and only redundant bandages on her stump remain, which Audrey acknowedges as an essential part of Amani’s rare robust beauty.

Audrey rubs her hard nipples against Amani’s abdomen, flaming and pulsing as she raises herself over Amani’s face. Amani leans against the wall on her elbows, slightly shortens herself so Audrey can also reach the blazing insides of her thighs. Audrey pinches the clit, then buries her tongue, grabs Amani’s legs until her short dirty nails start drilling into her skin. With her head upside down, pressed hard against Amani’s clean folds, and Amani’s own tongue slowly teasing her, gliding back and forth, stammering breaths against her crotch; everything slides and falls in front of her swimming eyes; something stirs in her stomach and she can feel her shoulders shiver. Her musk coats Amani’s lips and chin and cheeks; her nose starts to get runny. A cold former lady tastes like like rarest spice. She’s gummy and stingy, and mist covers Amani’s eyes, makes her gasp and snuffle as she swallows her juices which keep flowing and thickening. Audrey slides her buttocks unevenly, hunts for Amani’s tongue everywhere on herself, smothers her with her earthen taste.

Usually soft and profound like exquisive velvet, Amani’s voice turns into a short little squeal when she’s out of her limits. Audrey follows soon enough; her body chaotically spasms on top of Amani’s. She leaves prolonged loud groans as she presses her cheek to Amani’s cooling thigh. From time to time, Audrey snickers and does another bold swipe against her lips, all sticky with musk; or leaves a rowdy wet kiss, sucking in Amani’s skin and making her shrivel again. And then they both laugh, this time at the sounds of banging and pleading behind the door they have locked so securely.


	2. Missandei, the Onyx

Missandei’s eyes never fail her. Even when stuck in a wrong spot, shooting a bolt without direction, she somehow always ends up striking the target she’s intended her fire for. Back in the corners, behind the heavy shields and armored sets of their frontliners, dark magic wielders, snipers and silent masterminds sneak with their curses and orders; but Missandei is always the one to sight and put them down. The secret corners, carefully laid traps, a stray piece of bread lying outside of a ravaged pack on the road—Missandei spots it all with her keen eyes, black as endless night.

Back in the Hamlet’s safety, she still doesn’t lay down her self-imposed duty; and it’s always her to find Audrey waltzing her way from the tavern. Sometimes she’s with Dismas, with Willam and his faithful friend, or with Boudica; sharing drunken laughs and whatever squalid jokes wine makes them come up with. These times Missandei stands behind the statues and provision boxes, piercing their shobby backs as they parade half-blind and half-asleep, pick up a mournful song which they taint with their hiccups. There’s always a wide strong arm keeping Audrey on her feet; and Missandei can only itch her eyes and pout her cheeks as they disappear in the barracks, forget to snuff out the candles and flash their blurry silhouettes blending one into another. Missandei stops watching when she can see their clothes thrown away, and refuses to name the feeling smothering her at this moment.

But when Audrey has no companion; or when she’s plainly sitting below the founder’s statue, silently plotting the way to dismantle it again—that’s when Missandei makes a step forward. There’s a shaky smile on her face, gums showing; her forehead and cheeks gleaming streaks of sweat. She wants to believe that Audrey’s smirk holds no malice or annoyance, that she isn’t holding back the urge to snipe some delicate insult at her. She knows that it’s not in Audrey’s fashion to keep her tongue still, but it doesn’t stop her from _fearing_.

Audrey remembers those days when they were younger and more susceptible; before they learned not to turn pale and speechless at the sight of suspicious meats the swine preserve in their carriages. When Missandei was overtaken by frailty, she would cling on the closest to her, and yelp herself breathless— _will you marry me, will you marry me, will you marry me_ —Audrey couldn’t believe a word of it until she herself became a witness of this. But she didn’t share that fretful pique Tardif always had. She was the first to find her amusement in Missandei’s cries—pained, so unfitting to her usually stalwart self, discouraging the rest of the group. She knew these would disappear soon after their return to the Hamlet. She was the first to know that all four of them would return.

They remind each other of that episode—Audrey still grinning, Missandei still pouting—as they lie on the mattress inside the training ring. Barristan brought it out of nowhere so they would have some rest after a healthy practice. There are dog hairs scattered all around, feathers sticking out in many places, sometimes pricking their bare bodies. Missandei recognizes the smells and imprints of anyone who has ever approached that mattress, but Audrey sinks her fingers in her loose dreadlocks and she forgets about everything—for now.

Audrey asks if anyone before has seen Missandei without her hulking plates; just her brawny arms, perky breasts and a belly soft and a bit plump—enough for Audrey to nudge on it lovingly, both with her hands and lips. Missandei acts like it’s a question with an obvious answer. At war, they would be lucky to share one bank of a river to clean their wounds and wash off sickness; and no number of flying bolts and blasting bombs is too much for simple folk to forget their base little pleasures. She licks the counterquestion off her lips— _how_ many _people have seen you before like this?_ She knows she won’t like the reply.

Audrey still snickers and pokes her, asks her if she feels good now. Of course she does. Even when they are just pressed together, taking off hairs from each other’s skins, tickling accidentially—and then with a purpose, plucking out laughs and more little touches; or feel each other’s palms resting on their swelter backs. Audrey’s skin is so tender, even the gravedirt hasn’t sullied it—but she’s always so cold; even a gallon of ale doesn’t hoist her heat. Legs curled around Audrey’s, Missandei spoons her, barely hiding the flash of nervousness; desperately tries to share her overwhelming warmth.

It’s not until Audrey gets out and starts running her lips everywhere, be that Missandei’s salty neck or her nipples. Small, rigid arrow tips; they make her let out soft gasps as Audrey sucks on. Her palms are often still on Missandei’s sides, sliding slowly over her voluminous hips. She often complaints that these puffy pants she’s kept since the latest campaign are the only thing that still fits her. But Audrey doesn’t listen; she’s too busy milking gleeful moans out of her, teasing her navel and brushing her cheek against Missandei’s hair.

Missandei always shivers when she feels her icy touch slip into her, her head still lying low. She yearns to see what Audrey is feeling now, to see her half-lidded eyes and smile constantly reappearing; how her face would change if she kissed on her mole and the corner of her mouth. But she only sees Audrey’s nape, her long hair splayed on her quivering belly. Impossible. Missandei drops her elbow on her eyes when Audrey’s fingers start burrowing deeper, slightly arching inside. Lying over her legs, face turned to the opposite side, she’s almost too far away; cold spasms chain Missandei with every soft thrust, with every light curl.

Too many aggravating thoughts try to plunge in her head. What if Audrey’s turned away because she hates to look at her? She’s just a simple soldier who bathes irregularly and knows nothing of rare cosmetics and procedures; nothing of what she might be used to since her noble past. What if she keeps her eyes shut right now and doesn’t think of Missandei’s strange proportions, asymmetrical folds of her broad lips, of that large clit always peeking even through her thick growth? What if she does it just so Missandei would stop nagging at her once she gets the chance?—

She puts away her elbow, and the sight of Audrey’s curled knees and lurching buttocks blinds her to all pesky distractions. She cannot see her other hand as well, but she knows it to be prodding at Audrey herself, hopes it to follow the same hasty rhythm. Her fingers coil even more, she places her thumb on Missandei’s clit. She’s been so worked out, swallowed by heated sensations—and why did she even think that silly things, doubt Audrey like this?—it doesn’t take long until she starts beating her fist against the mattress; teeth clenched, no more voice left in her. Audrey moans and purrs like a cat, turns on her stomach and burrows her face between Missandei’s tense thighs to lick her clean of her musks. Her warm gasps fill her as deep as her fingers; Missandei loves to see Audrey still rubbing herself against her hidden palm to her climax. And after a few seconds of respite, full of exhausted breaths and chained licks over their glossy lips, Audrey shrieks at the sharp peak of a feather jabbing her under the ribs.

Missandei asks if Audrey stays with her like this later, trying not to think if— _when_ —she meets her again enjoying some other company. Audrey just laughs. What a question with an obvious answer.


	3. Margaret, the Aventurine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The premise of this one is inspired by [this amazing doodle](https://www.pixiv.net/en/artworks/69436310) (SFW) by Hellintz, just with Musketeer instead of Grave Robber.

For the sixth time of today, Margaret has lost the game; for the sixth time of today, she’s pulling her hair, finding new curses for her opponents latching on to the last coins on her side of the table. Clapping and waving away her gaudy insults, Dismas demands her vest. Another price for her setback, along with her hat, gloves, cloak and belt, already piled on the rotting floor of the tavern.

Everyone has lost at least once, and that pile has grown significantly. Yet it’s Margaret alone who’s been losing more than her bets, reacting disproportionately to everyone else involved in the game. Her spit has scattered the table; even in a gloomy light of the hall one could see vessels in her eyes popping and her gums turning tense and black.

Lacking his helmet, both gloves and one boot, Reynauld can no longer hold himself and is just shedding tears and stifled laughs in between of pleading for her mercy. Barristan’s cheeks and ears are already flushing red from ale and unbearable heat in the hall—he would’ve taken off his plate and shirt and smaller garments not only to be true to the rules. But every time Margaret opens her mouth, full of rare profanities, he can feel his insides shrinking—is this how high-born ladyfolk taught to behave now? Josephine reacts with just a short twitch of an eyebrow. A sly one; _no_ _n_ _e of you_ _have_ _said that jewellery doesn’t count as a clothing item._ Sarmenti has resumed that disdainful tune at her expense. He hasn’t been gambling with them; just skulking around the table, splashing his wine and hooting in his usual boisterous manner when someone has drawn an unlucky card after placing a careless bet. He’s been always the first to get a strike of Margaret’s temper, to take the blame for peeking and flashing her pitiful hands with the tone of his laughter. Or so she has thought, as the resentment has blinded her to his jigs and jeers directed equally at everyone and all.

Margaret tears off the buttons on her delicate vest, sewn specifically for her latest tournament and now destroyed so ruthlessly. Dismas whistles in disappointment. He hasn’t expected to see two more layers of clothing underneath. But she ignores him, as her glare is now piercing the one sitting by the opposite edge, giggling triumphantly while collecting her winnings.

Audrey’s coat was the first thing to drop on the floor after the initial match; soon followed by her neckerchief— _yes dearie, it’s separate from the blouse!_ But she was the one to offer this additional treat to the game apart from obvious gold business, and being the first to toss her stuff only fueled her ardor. A whole bottle of wine later, she became surprisingly more precise in her bluffs, in her observations of each drop of sweat and each twitch of an eye; and clothes were dropped and jewels were passed on a snap of her fingers. She kept her hat. She made sure _her_ intents stayed veiled under its broad shadow.

And here she is, half-lying in the chair, legs spread wide under the table. Her lipstick is all smeared over her glass; outlines of her breasts in the gape of her blouse gleam from sweat and passion. She sways her hair behind her shoulders, exposing her neck—still white but expectedly sweltered, one hickey slowly dissolving with time. Her hands are on coins, but her eyes are on Margaret, on her chest heaving as she runs out of words of contempt. Margaret’s fingers are coiling and uncoiling themselves; no bitten nail or a scab or a sticking stripe of skin. There must be many coats of creams and concoctions protecting them even under the gloves, maintaining their perfection. Still keeping her languid smile, Audrey leans over the cards and chips and coins, splays herself just to grab these fingers with hers—all tacky, dirt under her nails.

Margaret lifts her by the collar, ignoring the razz and blares from the sides. Audrey keeps giggling while running her hands over her own loose shirt—her breasts are about to fall out with every shake. Margaret puts the game to its end, and pulls Audrey with her, towards the other side of the tavern. They will return to get the clothes later. Now they must cast aside those they’ve been still wearing.

Margaret whispers into the barkeeper’s ear if there’s a spare room in the brothel—just the room, no service, all will be paid for from her companion’s pocket. Audrey yelps and bursts into laughter again upon hearing such audacity. She drops her dizzy head on Margaret’s shoulder, reaching her tongue to lick it. She hisses and lunges her hand between Audrey’s hips, grasps on her groin to make it hurt, to make her knees quail. The room is found.

Audrey’s hat is tossed away, her dreamy laughing eyes are now in front of Margaret as she falls on the colossal bed. But Margaret doesn’t waste her time looking—it would've been useful in the gambling hall earlier. She undoes Audrey’s belt and turns her over, makes a quick strike with her palm to force Audrey to lift on her knees. Dragging out more cackles and grumbles, Margaret pulls down her pants, stares at her crotch, all slick and glimmering. She wonders why Audrey still wears undergarments, if they get so soaked to the point of turning transparent. Audrey says something that makes Margaret raise her palm once again. She hoots as the blood runs to her buttocks, blazing and itching as Margaret rushes to slap each of them.

The commoners are either much brighter than nobles assume, or the high-born folk themselves are way too explicit. It’s always been said that it’s the high courts who revel in wine and more potent mixtures, defy the law of the church, spread mauls and disease on every piece of land they claim. The status they bear from birth clouds their minds to simple enjoyments; they have it all but always crave more. And so does Margaret, still craving more trophies, more adoration, more whimpers and trembles from Audrey when she reddens her skin. With a rapid swipe, she brings her undergarments down; and her strikes are now directed on Audrey’s wet lips, her hand only growing more solid.

Even Audrey herself cannot define what her noises are; whether they are still laughs, or cries, or groans of some immodest origin. She winces, lowers her head while lifting her bottom when Margaret starts rubbing her, still as relentlessly as she’s been slapping her earlier. She never buries her fingers, prefers just to graze, to see if her cunt can turn even redder. And it can, and even more juices can drip from it, now all over Audrey’s throbbing thighs. Her tips wrinkle from wetness; as Audrey keeps moaning and shaking, Margaret’s own breath also grows more laboured. She strokes until she can hear the thump of Audrey’s head against the mattress, and a single big noise, raucous as her knees slide limp by the opposite sides.

But Margaret slaps her again; and Audrey slowly turns on her side, her palm wiping off her own musk to feed herself. Hazy and wearied, she watches Margaret get rid of her stockings and shorts. There’s nothing left of her proper hairdo, of her makeup, of anything clean and refined she’s been known for. A small push against her shoulder; and Audrey’s sight is blocked again, and so is her breath when Margaret mounts. She thrusts herself onto Audrey’s tongue, rubs herself hastily against her lips, half-numb from her mellow torture. She groans—both from thrill and ire—when Audrey fills her with her hot laughs; mutters something to pretend still to be angry. She doesn’t raise until Audrey licks her all clean, while she herself runs her hands all over her glowing face.

They don’t kiss overnight, Margaret just turns her back and her flushed privates to Audrey and forces herself asleep. And when the beaming sun sets her awake, she only meets a grumpy face of the keeper, patiently waiting for the promised payment.


	4. Josephine, the Citrine

Today, there are no merry songs and jests ringing from the tavern. Gloom covers the half-lit drizzly chambers, and one can only hear whimpers and hiccups between tear-jerking stories. Audrey raises her jug and then drops her face on her arms, folded on the barstand. Hunched and disturbingly calm, Josephine sits nearby; mouth still veiled, hands still clutching the censer. She hasn’t even touched her glass while she’s been dragging the story from Audrey, like dragging a person falling from the edge.

So, there was Alhazred and Baldwin and Paracelsus with her in the Cove, and they were unlucky enough to meet those undead fiddlers and same old roaming witches behind every corner. One streak of bad luck made Alhazred overflow with incoherent screaming, with voices unfamiliar to his friends, just like his cauldron pouring out ethereal mixtures of secretive origins. Paracelsus was the most appalled by them, and she swung her knife at him, threatening to claim his deranged tongue and keep it for her experiments. Even Baldwin’s usual temperance didn’t last long under such assaults. Audrey had read enough poetry to realize that he was pleading for a swift death. Only one of the ancestor’s dubious shipments had been discovered so far, and Audrey insisted on pulling out.

She doesn’t care where all three have been sent to be relieved of their lunacy—she’s just glad that it’s not anywhere around her. Josephine cannot see her tears, but she can hear them; held back in her throat, behind each bitter snicker. Audrey’s the kind to mimic others’ manners of speech and body language as she quotes them; sometimes obviously magnified, especially after a drop of ale. But today drinking and jabbing doesn’t satisfy. She refills her jug, but her head keeps pounding and her chest is still as stiff and curbed as when she’s been watching her friends slip into the depths of insanity.

Josephine sits far enough so Audrey’s hectic arm sways can’t reach her. Audrey can, however, still catch the trail of an odd heady scent of her incense. She suddenly laughs, quickly wipes the shot of snot off her face as she lets this scent slow down the pulsations inside her skull. By little squints of Josephine’s eyes Audrey can guess she’s smiling; and then she asks one simple question, her whisper strangely low and husky. No further word uttered, Josephine takes out a tiny flask from one of her bags. It’s shaped like a test tube but as small as Josephine’s thumb, and it’s filled with some clear astringent liquid which Audrey swallows in a single gulp.

She then asks Josephine to lend her a hand as they walk away from the tavern. To lay it on Audrey’s waist and grasp her side, only to slide it slowly over her hip, and pause when she starts giggling again. To lower her kerchief and bring her lips to Audrey’s ear—she knows of that little cold ring on her lip, and how it pleasantly stings when pressed between hot skins. But Josephine just listens to her rambling, fueled by the passion of her potion, lets her grab her shoulder and plead for that hand to be laid on her buttocks already. _Patience, please, we are almost at my place,_ she says with the voice still as flat, but the eyes gleaming with anticipation. She’s made a good choice of the potion; no wonder it has always kept its respectable price even when others have been at a bargain.

At any time of day, Josephine’s marquee has been lit just with scented candles, emitting the veils of poignant spice, delicate blossoms, sands and blazing winds, loud bazaars and enclosed little shrines; all things marvelous and delirious Audrey has only seen in her dreams. Warm lights sink in the darkness of velvets and samite and brocades, but softly reflect from the glossy surfaces of various jewels and baubles; lying on the shelves, hanging on bizarre racks shaped like monstrous arms—with scales and sharp feathers and dozens of fingers. She sees more flasks blinking at her from a distant shelf, and her stomach curls and she rubs her thighs against each other.

Weeks and years later, most of them are still forced to share the same shabby barracks, or to fall asleep in many places they aren’t let in. But Josephine’s been the Heiress’ favourite. Since day one, she’s been hiding alone in her marquee, her gnarly hands laid all over the assortment of trinkets and heaps of coins they’ve been looting from the lands marooned and damned. The first time they met—at the gates of the ruins—Audrey crudely asked her how the Heiress’ cunt tasted like. To her, it seemed to be the only explanation for this impudent luxury. She didn’t remember if Josephine had paid her any attention.

She’s laid on vast cushions, hands jammed between her swelling hips as she’s not allowed to touch anything else. She has tried to extend, to assist Josephine in her nagging spectacle, in her slow undressing. But the hand she wishes to kiss and press to her cheeks and breasts, has just pushed her back onto the cushions. She cannot tell if the urge is still as pleasant as it is painful; she sinks her teeth in her lower lip while Josephine sheds her clothes. So many of them; the thuds and ruffles seem to have no end, and so do Audrey’s whimpers and long troubled groans. If only she has tossed her scarfs and skirts into Audrey’s direction, for her to have something to stall herself with; but they just disappear in the shadows on the other side.

Time goes on and she still longs for any gleam of the skin, for any broader sight of Josephine’s dark buxom body. And when it finally catches her eye, she finds herself rolling back and forth on the cushions, her lips involuntarily reaching for something she’s still not spared of. Audrey also kicks off her boots and pants, lets her shirt hang off her elbows. Something dire and insolent shoots through her head and out of her mouth as she sees Josephine in her full beauty just standing still and watching Audrey in her anxious jolts.

She leaves her rings and bracelets on, keeps her beads resting between her heavy breasts. There’s one more golden stripe hugging her ankle, with small peals jingling on it. She comes over and gives Audrey a brief kiss, yet hot enough to leave her with her tongue out, craving more kisses, more tang of silver against her pumping lips. The itch between her legs is so profound that she grapples her arms with them again; her shoulders spasm, her face freezes with weird painful expressions she cannot control.

Audrey slides towards Josephine before she leaves somewhere again, to grab her breast just with her mouth. Greed erupts from her with more groans and giggles as she sucks on and nibbles. She’s almost afraid that Josephine moves away from her once more, afraid to have her mouth empty. She opens her eyes and sees a hand sway past her, only to tuck her hair behind her ear—it must’ve been ticklish. Audrey stops when Josephine touches her, leaves a short keen; lips yet grasped firmly.

She looks up to see if Josephine has any hint of enjoyment on her face, in hopes to find her eyes half-lidded and lips half-opened. And once she does it, the shadow falls onto Josephine again as she pulls out, and listens to Audrey bawling, knees close to her chest. Another bottle spawns in her hands—larger one, made of dark matte glass—and her fingers turn glossy as she dips them in. Just one stern look, and Audrey turns on her back and spreads her already numb pliant legs. Her eyes so ravenous, pupils so wide; Josephine even spares her a swift smile before she sinks her anointed hand in.

Audrey squirms, still panting and her hungry tongue drawn out. While Josephine’s fingers prod at her—still as slow, as excruciating—she feels that something is still missing, that she’s still empty while her mouth is empty. She stares at Josephine’s clean hand, her flushed wet face warped in a silent plea. No muscle of hers twitches when she offers this hand to Audrey, lets her taste each of her fingers. Her tongue runs over Josephine’s delicately etched rings, then back to the edges of her small square nails. The roof of her mouth throbs when Josephine slides two more fingers in, now following the same crawling pattern as inside Audrey’s cunt. By now, Audrey keeps her eyes closed as her vision has already grown murky, and Josephine’s face still doesn’t show anything other than her usual eerie composure.

Then both of her hands retract while Audrey is still writhing, voice too weak from prostration. Josephine disjoints her beads and waves them in front of Audrey’s dazed eyes. But the fire on her skin, in her throat, in her tingling insides has already burned out any urge to object, to get along with Josephine’s harrowing games. It doesn’t take long for a first bead to touch her oiled lips and burrow, followed by one and two and more of them. Audrey tries to look down; she wants to watch how they nudge at her; another pulsation to stun her when she sees each bead taken out and then thrust back again. But then Josephine grabs her chin and forces a kiss; her lips clenching Audrey’s so tightly that she forgets to breath for a moment.

Goosebumps cover her body, her fingers and toes start jerking on their own—as there’s nothing that Audrey can now move on her own volition. Tears down her cheeks, walls of her cunt twinging as Josephine keeps pushing her beads in, her other hand now on Audrey’s neck. She withdraws her firm kiss to let Audrey suck in some short fickle breaths while she clutches onto her neck. There’s a trace of a smile, a small peek of her teeth coming out. But Audrey doesn’t see, even when her eyes are gaping; already blinded by her convulsions and fever and tormenting helplessness. She cannot even gasp when her body stops moving altogether, when the chill of the climax petrifies her.

Suddenly, she’s free; nothing is blocking her breath, and beads now lie on her thigh, all lustrous from her musks. What she sees on Josephine’s face drags out her own smile, all shaky and broad, tongue hanging off her lip. She timidly asks if Josephine herself wants something, if she can somehow please her. But she doesn’t hear any word, just has her hand trapped so she can barely twiggle her fingertips. Josephine makes a short lick against them and puts them on her clit, rubs Audrey’s hand against herself with her own coercion. And Audrey laughs again, her gaze fixed on that rare blissful expression no one has probably seen before.


	5. Paracelsus, the Fluorite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time no see. c:

Audrey is more than satisfied with today’s venture in the woods. Not only they have quickly located and detoxified those putrid corpses laid out on the road, but she has also filled her pouches with impeccable samples of the Weald’s neverending corruption. There has been a dying toad with its eyes and palate generously coated with something sickly grey and caseous; dozens of feathers which have lost their color and texture under the blankets of mold; and a remarkably large lizard, hollow as a dead tree, malignant sprouts extending from its mouth as it’s screeched in agony. Her finest possession, however, has been a hand of a witch. It’s dry and brittle as dead bark, all blooming with pustules of striking yellow, noxious green and rusty dark red.

It’s been one more of those occassions when Audrey’s been glad that they have Fergus on _their_ side. That they must never learn her rage on themselves, have her stout maw ravaging their limbs like she does with those of the fiends. Almost as if her master Willam has let her into their human affairs, she’s brought her trophy directly to Audrey, and even waited till she stops acting confused and finally extends her palms to accept the present. The beast’s loyalty even to misfits like Audrey is still something she cannot fit in her head.

Dancing to a cheerful tune no one else could hear, Audrey shows up at the back entrance of the library, ‘Welcome!’ signs still hanging off its caged windows. In a hurry, she bumps into a large hunched figure leaving through the door of her destination— _oh greetings, Bigby!_ They exchange joyous smiles, swift embraces, usual questions out of genuine politeness; yet Audrey’s eyes are now racing and nips of sweat exude under the brim of her hat— _she’s here, she must be here, Bigby must have seen her_ —

She still asks him just in case, and he confirms. There’s a light pleasant smile adorning his normally gloomy face, as he tells of some new tonic Paracelsus has made for his runny nose. But Audrey’s ears are already inside her laboratory, catching the pops of bubbles in boiling flasks and charming squelching noises of some poor thing’s insides being pulled out and chopped. And so are her eyes; glancing over so many sharp things—lens, slides, glasses, scalpels, detached claws, scattered teeth—and that rigid, determined look on Paracelsus’ face. Audrey leaves Bigby a hasty goodbye and scurries inside, towards the farthest door.

She enters without knocking, and is greeted with a total lack of attention. It’s just as she’s already imagined, with noises around and sunlight playing on those fine surfaces it could catch. She cannot see Paracelsus’ face, however, as she’s turned away from the door, too invested in that _subject_ she’s been dissecting. But Audrey does see a glimpse of her thin white skin between her chopped hair and robes, both impossibly black when put against the sunny window. A quick sultry spasm runs along her legs.

The whine of the door and the ruffle of her coat have obviously notified Paracelsus of Audrey’s visit. But she still slowly tiptoes towards her aim, her arms outstretched and fingers curled, hungry grin slashing her face. And just when she’s been about to trap Paracelsus in her greedy embrace, open palms ready to grab and fondle those heavy breasts, a small, sharp-nosed face turns to her, already frozen with a frown.

She asks plainly what has brought Audrey to her today, and Audrey giggles before revealing her rotten treasures. And as she has expected, that sour pout is washed in a second from Paracelsus’ face once she eyes over all gifts. And as she always does, she runs to grab her monocle to observe all signs of corruption more closely, and yelps upon each little discovery. The amount of genuine bliss in her voice and her wide eyes would surprise anyone, especially those who haven’t yet seen her maskless; but Audrey knows it all, loves it all, and is already aware what would come next. And so is Paracelsus; once she moves her gaze away from the samples, her lips curve with a familiar qualm. Her frown returns, and it deepens at every sight of Audrey’s amusement. _Just let me preserve the samples_ _at first_ _,_ she sighs and hears Audrey’s toes shuffle hastily.

These little grimaces, growing less hostile and more timid with time, are an essential treat, and Audrey milks her of more and more of them as she speaks. She has no particular interest in the actual answers—not where Paracelsus wants to do it, how she pleases to position herself to her liking, or would she rather take off her robes. It is the gulps of abashment, pink blotches spawning on her sickly pale cheeks, and her plump lips shifting from one shape to another upon Audrey’s hot whispers. But it doesn’t mean that she doesn’t listen at all. Paracelsus insists on her robes staying on, in that shaky pitch of hers; and the way how she stays leaned on her working table makes Audrey believe this is her final decision. All is fair and equivalent. And Paracelsus cannot deny that, still briefly looking at the jars where she’s kept all presents Audrey has ever brought to her. That poor little thing she’s been working on just five minutes ago—she still remembers an especially nagging itch between her legs and teasing bites on her neck she’s exchanged for that one.

Audrey lies against Paracelsus’ bent back for a while, gently caressing her tense shoulders. Her hips are tightly pressed to Paracelsus’, and she feels them rubbing against each other uneasily under the length of the skirt. She moves a bit to the side, so she can see Paracelsus’ skinny hand, fingers tapping on the wood. The skin is rough from excessive washing, but it doesn’t stop Audrey from holding this hand in hers, from bringing it to her lips, from feeling the lasting scent of strange flesh and acrid bodily fluids, badly concealing itself under the zesty kick of soap. There must be no white spot left on her face after all these soft kisses on her hand, all these quiet murmurs breathed out right into her ear. Her head is hanging low, hair obscuring her eyes, but Audrey has done it so many times before; of course she knows it.

Meanwhile Audrey’s other hand has been circling around her arched bottom, shuddering ever so slightly. Sometimes she’s being faintly and quickly, sometimes she’s pressing further and slowing down to feel the shape and the fullness even under the several skirts. Either way, there are heavy, drawn-out breaths coming from the other side as she keeps sliding her palm, and the shivers grow faster and lose any rhythm. Audrey can sense the skin become tighter under her touch, and the thighs clench together. She asks if Paracelsus likes it. They both know she’s not expecting a proper reply; and a single whimper, almost annoyed at Audrey’s prolonged teasing, is just enough. Cold and hot flashes run all over Audrey’s body, from her fingertips to the pulse in her stomach, between her aching hips. Her hat has been lying useless in the corner for a little while; and now is joined by her coat while she falls on her knees and lifts the hem of the robes to dive underneath.

The air is thick and damp where Audrey can fully observe the length of Paracelsus’ wobbly legs, all glinting with sweat. Worn out leather garters keep a pair of old stockings, and Audrey undoes just one of them in one flinch of her fingers. And as she’s expected, the black gauzy matter slides down her leg as the skin has already been so hot and slick. She smacks her lips against the deep red mark left after the garter, with a sound so loud that she herself shakes even more. Then she rolls up her white underskirt and reveals the full shape of Paracelsus’ backside, all dotted with goosebumps. She taps her fingers against it while gazing in between, at that little red cunt slowly getting more sleek and more swollen. Her thick enclosed hips spread a bit wider while Audrey makes these small tickling taps and slaps.

Paracelsus is usually quiet—even when she’s close to her climax—just gasping shamefully, sometimes with her hand blocking her mouth. But if Audrey can hear her more vividly, it’s a sign that she’s getting angry. A sign that the teasing is making her head pound and her flushed hot spots to be filled with needles, dragging pleasure turning to a sharp ache. Audrey’s cheek then slides over that sultry glistening skin, while she breathes in slowly, savours the scent of Paracelsus’ exhausted body, locked for days in the room with sweet poison and infection. Audrey barely holds her tongue in her throbbing mouth while she rubs her face against Paracelsus’ cunt, each black curly hair on her lips and around her nostrils. But while she’s lazily gliding and panting, there’s more gleaming gush slicking down her thighs, smearing over Audrey’s mouth—her teeth chattering so impatiently—more bitter and luscious smells hitting her in the nose.

Audrey’s gaze has already gone blurry by the time she finally opens her mouth. She licks off the musk from the dips of her inner thighs, from her hanging wrinkled lips which she sucks in until she hears more of those fiery moans. Her tongue slides inside, but only the tip; and then her whole mouth covers these soft slippery folds while her tongue flicks slowly. Paracelsus quivers and bounces against her, almost if moving herself on purpose to guide Audrey where her kisses and sweeps would be the most inciting. Her knees, just as hot and unsteady, bump at one another when Audrey tickles her clit and breathes over her lips, full of blood and lush twinge. Her hair tickles Audrey, too; but it is the load of scents and thick taste smothering her that keeps her going, that fuels her further without touching herself. Her blouse and pants are all sticky from sweat and heat and yearning; and her face is all wet from Paracelsus’ musks; and her vision and hearing and thinking are all clogged by this damp sweetness.

Paracelsus has been spasmodic for a long while, even though Audrey’s tongue hasn’t stopped yet. The echoes of her pained groans have finally reached Audrey again after the shot of her own pleasure has pierced her. She’s kept her cheek pressed to Paracelsus’ sleek cunt while she’s been catching her breath; and when her own throes have ceased, she has slapped Paracelsus’ thigh where it still has been aching. A dull thud has resounded from the side of the table, and Audrey’s kissed her the last time before freeing herself out of the robes.


End file.
